How to Save a Life
by A Pleasant Reader
Summary: DWTS!AU. Oliver Queen is pushed into competing to improve his image and subsequently the QC stock prices. His professional partner, Felicity Smoak, coaxes him into putting some of his ghosts to rest. Team Olicity represents Oliver's most memorable year in a contemporary dance dedicated to Shado.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Arrow, Dancing with the Stars, or the song "How to Save a Life" by The Fray._

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><p>"You're going to blow them away, Oliver. You got this," Felicity said as she knelt, arranging the glorified rags that was passing as the shirt of his costume. The makeup artist was painting the blood on his face and chest as he lay in the middle of the ballroom. The lights were down as this week's package played. He hadn't realized that they had audio of his lapse in the conference with the costume department.<p>

"Oliver?" Felicity's hands fluttered at nothing, betraying her nerves.

"Felicity. I know," he replied, lingering as always on her name. He motioned at her to go ahead and take her own starting position. She shot him a weak smile that he returned with more assurance. The stage hands scurried away as the package ended. Oliver closed his eyes and waited for his cue.

.~***~.

Felicity slid down the wall next to him. He had escaped the post show chaos in favor of a quiet backstage hallway; it'd be a little while yet before he and Felicity took their ride back to the studio. Oliver hoped he'd have time to make it back to the foundry tonight to check on things.

"You know, we can't keep coasting through on your abs and smile, Oliver. I mean they're awesome; I tell you all the time. In fact, you're probably sick of me blurting that out by now—" she pulled up one corner of her mouth in a self-deprecating grin.

"Me? Never." He shot back with his playboy grin, the one that had completely failed to fool her at their first meeting and every time since, before relaxing into a more sincere affability. He was still riding the excitement of the night. He hated being on camera and playing celebrity when there was still a whole book of names waiting to be crossed off, but it was hard not to get lost in the competition and atmosphere. Especially with Felicity constantly at his side, alternatively beaming at him and nervously babbling.

"—But," Felicity continued severely, quelling the victorious mood, "it's week five, now. We're going to have to give them more if we want to keep those votes. I want to up our rehearsal time, Oliver." He frowned. Digg was already carrying most of the responsibility of being the Hood. He barely got to get out as it was. "You need the polish. More importantly, we really need to address the cardboard cutout comments. It's most memorable year week. This is our chance to humanize you. I know you like the broody mystery routine, but this is why you're doing Dancing, remember? To clean up your image. That's not going to work if you don't give the audience something."

"I told you at the beginning I wasn't going to say anything about the island. That was the deal." He said coldly, unconsciously dipping into the headspace that he associated with being the Hood.

"Hey. Easy there." Undaunted by his vigilante voice, she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. "Jeeze, if looks could kill…Anyway, you may have said that, but that doesn't mean I agreed to it. In fact, I believe I said it was probably a good idea to talk about with someone before it drives you loony."

"This is not up for discussion, Felicity." He stood, planning to end the conversation, but she followed.

"I say it is. Look, Oliver." She paused, grabbing his arm and turning him towards her. "I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think you could. I've watched you relax and open up these past weeks. Not a lot, granted, but you're getting better. I've watched you learn to smile again. I've been watching you start recovering—from what I don't know for sure, but I've seen pretty much all of your body, Oliver—obviously, under completely platonic circumstances of course—but my point is I've got some ideas."

"You have _no_ idea!" He spat, breaking her grip. But she simply moved her hand to his chest. She put her finger exactly where one of his scars would be if he wasn't still in his costume.

"Non-serrated blade." He froze as she traced it from memory. "Precise. Deliberate. Not self-inflicted." She looked up and met his eyes. "Torture. I'm not actually blonde, you know. Actually, I'm literally a genius, like if I wanted I'm sure I could get into MENSA, but that's not my point," she winced, "which I will now get back to. My point, Oliver, is that I understand the reticence, and I'm not actually asking you about that, much less asking you to share that with the country. Just give me something. Please. Even if it's small, we can spin it into something bigger." She looked at with big eyes, pleading with him to trust her. And, counter to all his plans, he did feel like he could trust her, like he wanted to trust her, but he knew better. _No one_ could know. No one else, especially her, deserved the pain and danger that came with knowing.

"No." Oliver could have—should have—left it at that, but he watched disappointment fill her face and found himself explaining before he could think better of it. "It's not that easy, Felicity. There are many reasons that I can't talk about what happened during those five years. Only some of them are what you think; some of those reasons are for other people's safety."

"I never said it would be easy, Oliver; I'm sure it will be really, really hard," she stopped and shut her eyes for a second, "I mean difficult. But that's _good_ because it means it will make you stronger. Obviously, I don't want to put anyone in danger, especially you, but I can keep a secret, I promise, Oliver. You can trust me. Tell me just one story from that first year; I'm not asking for everything. Then we'll figure out together what we can safely use on camera." Felicity raised her hand to cradle his cheek, her thumb sweeping below his eye. "Partners, right?"

Oliver sighed. Oliver Queen, billionaire, CEO-in-training, and part-time vigilante, bested by this little slip of woman with her brains, big eyes, and trusting looks. "We're going to need vodka."

.~***~.

Felicity threw two tiny leather contraptions at him when he walked into the studio late the next morning. He caught them out of reflex while raising his eyebrows at her. She smiled. "Contemporary is a barefoot dance. Put them on. Get used to them. Then, I want to you to show me some of the things she taught you. I'd like to find a way to incorporate them."

Oliver sat to secure the protectors to his feet. "What do I need to know about contemporary? And did you get that song you wanted?"

"I did, in fact." Felicity started stretching as he paced. "The stars are lining up for us this week. You're probably going to hate contemporary, but you're going to rock at it. Seriously, your ridiculous intensity is going to come in handy. Also, lifts. Incidentally, I am probably going to die from the sheer glory of your arms or from the embarrassment of all the position-related innuendo that is inevitably going to come out of my mouth." Turning his back to her and the camera, he grinned widely. "Back to your question though, bit of ballet and jazz. Lots of falls. The style is all about conveying emotion and being raw, real, honest, and open."

He stopped and looked at her. She laughed at the distaste that he played up for the camera. His expression softened at her laugh and he dropped to the floor to do some basic stretches. In his head, he ran through the non-archery related skills Shado showed him, trying to figure out what Felicity would like.

.~***~.

"So, Oliver is going to look freshly shipwrecked, and I'm going to be paying tribute to the woman who helped him. There are some special effects that are really important to make my concept work—"

"Hang on, Miss Smoak. Let's flesh out these sketches before we talk effects. Do you have a photo of the woman?" Oliver blinked at the designer, while he tried to reign in the disbelief, ever present guilt, and anger. He remained stony-faced, aware that there was a camera recording them.

Felicity answered for him, luckily. "Are you stupid? Of course not. They were shipwrecked."

"Of course, I apologize. Would you describe her for me, Mr. Queen?"

"Her name was Shado," he said stiffly, "She was…" Oliver furtively glanced at the camera, blinking rapidly. Suddenly, he was trying to mentally juggle toeing the line of the sanitized story, flashing back to Shado's death, remembering drunkenly confessing the slightly less sanitized version of the story to Felicity, and trying to keep track of the people and conversation happening around him. He almost physically felt Felicity's attention lock on him, alerting him that his public persona must be breaking down. "She…" The hyperawareness he'd learned on the island was bleeding out of the flashback into the present; everything was too loud; the room was too small.

He ran.

"Oliver! Hey, shush. Breathe." Abruptly, Felicity was there, one hand at his jaw, grounding him, and the other on his chest drawing his attention down to his breaths. "Just breathe with me." They were in the hall. He hadn't gotten far, but at least there weren't any cameras here. He hadn't had a full-blown panic attack since the thunderstorm the first week he was back. "Oliver, you back with me?" He locked eyes with his partner, trying to slow his still elevated breathing. A small voice in the back of his head was saying that he shouldn't be allowing her to see him weak, shouldn't show anyone a point to exploit. He ignored it because another voice, one that sounded a bit like Digg, told him it was okay; he could trust—already trusted—those blue eyes despite all his efforts to keep his distance.

"Oliver, I'm so sorry. This is my fault," Felicity pulled him into an embrace that he weakly returned. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I'll scrap the concept. We'll do the year your sister was born or something. I really thought you were ready. I'm sorry."

He leaned back, incredulous. "We can't change it. It's Thursday. And you can't apologize for my panic attack."

"No, no. I pushed. I have to fix it. I can do it—the producers, the choreography, I promise. We're partners. Nothing is more important to me than you. And I failed you." There was a pang in his chest and a weight in his stomach as he watched tears start to shine in her eyes.

"No, Felicity, you didn't." Oliver pulled her back in and pressed a kiss into her hair. "You've never failed me, Felicity."

.~***~.

Felicity's hand gripped his knee, silently supporting him. He covered her hand with his own, but made no other acknowledgement. The director signaled rolling, and he focused on the teleprompter. The speech Felicity had helped him cobble together started scrolling.

"The news stories that made me a household name all talked about my rescue from a deserted island; technically, that was true. When I was rescued, there was not another living soul on that island with me. There were other souls, though; ghosts that lingered at the edges of my mind because I wasn't always alone. The ghosts haunt me still. But, these past six weeks here, and Felicity specifically," he turned to talk directly to her, "You've helped me understand that I don't have to let them follow me. I can let them rest." She smiled with misty eyes and squeezed his leg again. He turned back to the camera.

"My most memorable year was 2007, the year the Gambit sank and I was marooned. I was not a good person then: I cheated on my girlfriend with her sister because I had commitment issues, and her sister died because of me. I had no ambitions other than spending money and having a good time. When I was Ollie Queen, I was tabloid fodder: a drunken playboy. Ollie Queen did not survive the storm that sank the Gambit and took my father. What survived was an empty shell; I thought I was as good as dead. Luckily for me, I was not the only one stuck on that island. There was a woman there. Her name was Shado. She saved me in so many ways. She taught me ways to survive, and, in doing that, she taught me to be a better version of me. That is why Felicity and I are dedicating this week's dance to her."

.~***~.

The music started. With a deep breath in, he blocked out everything but Felicity and the routine. His eyes stayed closed, but he knew Felicity was dancing over to him.

_Step one, you say, we need to talk_

She guided him upright and removed the ragged shirt. He opened his eyes as she used the costume to wipe away the fake blood.

_He walks, you say sit down, it's just a talk_

He retreated. She brought him back.

She led them away and into the first lift as she stumbled and he caught her.

The pattern of retreat and return continued as they danced over a prop of a fallen tree, moved through a series of moves and lifts based on the katas he'd demonstrated for Felicity, and, for a brief moment, fell into a meditative pose. When the song crescendoed, the dynamic changed as Felicity's choreography highlighted his increased strength, their more equal partnership, setting them up for Felicity's bold conclusion.

He caught her eyes just before the chorus started. He saw concern for him, for the dance, for whether or not they could pull it off, but he also saw strength and trust. He read her lips as she told him, "I believe in you."

_And where did I go wrong? I lost a friend_

The blood capsule hidden in the bodice of Felicity's dress burst, right on cue.

_Somewhere along in the bitterness_

She playacted the injury, dancing through her death scene.

_And I would have stayed up with you all night_

Oliver rushed to her side to cradle her as the last strains of the song played.

_Had I known how to save a life_

Oliver was breathing hard, clutching his partner to his chest. The ballroom erupted into applause. It was a standing ovation. He smiled as he helped Felicity to her feet; she was beaming even as she wiped tears that he didn't remember crying from his face. He pulled her back to him, holding her tight.

"Shado would have loved it," she murmured directly into his ear.

"Felicity," he lingered on her name, trying to tell her everything he was feeling at that moment, trying to tell her that he trusted her, trying to communicate that he wanted to tell her his secret. Oliver tried to put everything into her name, since he couldn't say it out loud. Even now, high on adrenaline and success, he was clinging to logic and rationality, which said she couldn't know. "You are remarkable," he breathed, instead.

"Well, thank you for remarking on it."


End file.
